


The Grind

by Tomboy13



Series: Butch Lena au [2]
Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Butch Lena Luthor, Butch/Femme, Exercise is my happy place, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 03:29:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13918434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tomboy13/pseuds/Tomboy13
Summary: Gratuitous fluff about the benefits of physical exercise... the fluff is between Lena and working out.





	The Grind

She’d only mentioned wanting to trim down once in passing, but that was enough for James to start badgering her to join the back-alley gym he’d recently gone crazy for.  
Although Lena had been a runner for years, first to keep trim and latterly as a free form of therapy, the thought of the gymnasium James described was horrific. In her minds eye, she’d pictured a sweaty box room, filled to the brim with testosterone-riddled steroid-freaks, slapping each other's asses and quaffing barely legal protein chemicals, while deriding the lone woman trying to squat a cartoonish set of dumbbells.  
Even so, after a week of solid nagging, she’d agreed, mainly because if she had to spend one more lunch break with her acting-CEO wheedling away at her, there was a good chance she’d say something that would irreparably damage their friendship.

Arriving on the sunny Saturday morning in the desolate forecourt of an old red-brick factory, Lena had been convinced that her worst fears were about to be recognised.  
The gym, unironically called “Street Fitness”, was one of several converted units on the site, the signs and labels on the doors identifying a varied selection of businesses: a language school, a women's aid centre, several kinds of clothing manufacturers.  
The double doors to the gym were heavy and firmly closed, painted acrylic green, with a smaller cut-out in the left hand side that stood wide open.  
From inside drifted the sound of 90s dance music, and the faint aroma of sweat.  
The weedy stench of hops from the microbrewery in the adjacent unit over powered the BO, fortunately, but the atmosphere had already set Lena’s skin tingling.  
She stood outside in her tight fitted white tank top and baggy black jersey shorts for an embarrassingly long time, scuffing her soles on the Tarmac.  
“Hey! You coming in?” A man's voice called from inside the dimly lit edifice.  
The CEO couldn't see the person who’d spoken, but his voice was gentle and accented, and undeniably kind.  
Breathing in a deep breath, reminding herself who and what she was, the butch woman had strode forwards, expensive trainers squeaking in their newness.

That had been 6 months ago now.

The disembodied voice had turned out to belong to the owner, a tall, wiry Belizean with ebony skin and impossibly warm eyes, whose given name was Christopher but who everyone called “Legs”.  
Lena, and just about everyone else, was half in love with him. The man had an easy kind of care, that for Lena set him somewhere between a big brother and the person she longed to be.  
The other regulars were a rag tag bunch of humans and aliens, men and women, of all races and genders and nationalities, which, despite being an initial shock, suited Lena down to the ground.

The place itself was small, with a low roof and little natural lighting; in one corner were several weights and dumbbells, kettlebells and a few huge tractor tyres. Along the opposite wall was a unique arrangement of scaffold poles, creating a climbing frame that the calisthentics, cross fit, and parkour crews had an ongoing and furtive battle for. The only other equipment was an array of home made plywood boxes and vaults, which gave the place an odd, thumping beat as feet and hands hit the cheap wood almost constantly.

After her first circuit training session, drenched with perspiration and uncomfortably close to throwing up, the endorphins thrumming through her blood stream making her dizzy, Lena had all but begged Christopher to let her sign up.

Kara had been overjoyed.

For purely altruistic reasons, of course.

She was worried about her girlfriend's health, she had informed excitedly, and had read about the stress busting, life extending benefits of physical exercise on Homo sapiens. And Lena, the blonde had reminded her, was always saying that she wanted to get fitter, stronger, more defined. Kara went out of her way to make sure her girlfriend knew that she was more than handsome, but if Lena wanted to gain some muscle mass and lose some puppy fat, Kara would support her however she needed.  
It was entirely based on the human woman's best interests, the Kryptonian had insisted, and had nothing at all to do with the morning that Supergirl woke to find Lena already out of bed, heart pounding and dripping with exertion after returning from an early morning run with her shirt off and tucked into baggy basketball shorts and reams of pale, moist skin on display.  
It had nothing to do with that, or the way the brunette’s eyes had been lit as if on fire, hungry and eager.

Now, months later, Lena could feel the femme watching her as she struggled through her third set of dive bomber push ups; could feel deep blue eyes tracing the way her body arced downwards, biceps and shoulder muscles throbbing, core clenching, as her nose very nearly brushed the dirty floor of the gym, followed by a visible release of tension as she pushed skywards, back a perfect curve. 

The reporter had joined not long after Lena, a brand new, DEO approved, kryptonite infused tungsten bracelet allowing the Super to work out in a regular human gym unnoticed.

As Lena had moved into her set, she’d seen the femme wiping at her own face with a towel to mop up the sweat from an intense cardio session, her eyes never leaving her lover’s figure.  
Now, under the reporter’s focused gaze, a bead of sweat broke free of the clipped hair at the base of the butch’s neck, rolling down over the glistening trapezius muscle, over the cup of the collar bone, and disappeared under the tight, black material of the woman's sports bra.  
The towel slipped unnoticed out of Kara’s stilled hand and fluttered damply to the floor.  
Despite the intense lactic acid making her arms quiver and her stomach burn, Lena smirked.  
There was no question that making the move to be, if not exercise buddies, at least exercise acquaintances, had been wonderful for their relationship. Kara had even started joining her lover on long weekend runs, taking in the local parks, city streets and the waterfront in unison, pacing one another and generally enjoying the comfortable silence of their own company. 

Lying on her back, Lena took deep breaths, readying for the move to reverse push ups.  
She always found them difficult, the temptation to collapse out of bridge position rather than lower herself to the floor being incredible, but her time at Street Fitness had given the butch’s self-confidence the kind of boost she’d never felt before, and she had no fear of humiliation.  
Her body was changing to match her attitude; where previously she’d felt only softness, now her probing hands felt the beginnings of steel under the fat layer of her belly and thighs, her arms and back muscles swelling almost daily. She'd spent hours tracing the same ridges and bulges of muscle on her ripped partner, viewing them as of they were made of magic.  
After months of gut busting, though, she had realised that while Kara's strength might come as a gift from the sun alone, her own came from hours of hard work, from slogging through repetitious movements until her hands were calloused and she was drenched in sweat. Every muscle she felt solidifying under her skin was a testament to the grind. Every technique she nailed was proof of her sticking power.

It made her, in a word, proud.

The small universe of the gym, too, had opened her World up immeasurably.  
She’d started training basic vaults and tricky climb ups with the parkour fanatics, and worked with preppy cross fitters to crack the muscle up. She’d discussed veganism with a 300 year old Thoracian, and spent several gentle hours helping a 17 year old Serbian cheerleader stick the handstand.  
Inside that grubby little building, Lena had found something new: here, no one cared who she was. Despite a consistent and much-encouraged slew of banter, her name, wealth and social status was irrelevant; how she presented and carried herself was unimportant. The people she met there didn't care about each other's pasts or how they spent their days in the regular world. They were only concerned with the person you were in that space, whether you encouraged or ridiculed; whether you offered advice or undermined someone who was struggling; that you were, to all intents and purposes, nice to have around.  
The Street Fitness family couldn't care less that Lena was the butch, lesbian, billionaire heiress to a toxic family brand; they were too busy worrying about the important things, like whether she remembered to roll the yoga mat properly at the end of her workout and that she’d help a newbie if it looked like they were in a bind.  
It was something she knew her past couldn't touch, and the youngest Luthor had never felt happier, healthier or more welcome.

A shadow fell across the mat, interrupting the woman's thoughts.  
She looked up into a beautiful face, bordered by blonde hair and filled with sheer adoration and pride, so strong that it made her own heart flutter.

Lena Luthor had gotten so much from joining this little weird community; if the sight of her dripping and flexing post workout also made her girlfriend go weak in the knees, well, that was just an added bonus.


End file.
